Goodbye post. where I stop mourning lack of creativity in naming blog posts. because I know a hopeless case when I see one.

So I moved. From here to here.

So did my blog. from here to here. leaving a lot of inane randomness in its wake.

I suck at saying goodbye. So, goodbye. there. That’s all I can manage.


Mithi…

….is the name of the four year old girl I met at my dadu’s place last evening. She has a dimpled smile and a cute bob of hair. Her eyes lit up the moment she spotted the bottle of Mirinda in my hands. She pulled me by the hand into the room on the bed which also doubled up as her ship. She was the sailor and I was a fish she’d caught and was planning to cut me up into little pieces to make maachher jhol (fish curry) and feed to her little children. I tried to look suitably enthusiastic about being cooked alive in a pot but then, the little doll that she is, she suddenly decided that she likes me and thus would not subject me to such gruesome torture. She even went on to show her affection by pinching my cheeks and kissing lightly on them and also blowing me little kisses every now and then.

When she was denied a sip of Mirinda (because it is for “elders and Mithi you’re still small”) she stole a few sips from my glass and planted another noisy kiss of her Mirinda-laced lips. Then we went on to defeat Bhooter Raja (King of Ghosts) and rescue the princess who was her daughter and my sister (which made her my mother though I clearly remember that we started off the game with her telling me that I am her father. Not important. Move on.)

She has an extraordinary imagination and memory. She paints the sky pink on her drawing book because she remembers that one day her mother had taken her to the roof during sunset and she saw the sky with brilliant streaks of pink and not blue. Though her mother frets and her kindergarten drawing teacher does all she can to explain to her that the sky is blue and not pink, she squeals in delight every time she finishes drawing a picture of a hut with green fields, a solitary smiling cow grazing on them and a smiling sun setting in a pink sky. She is obsessed with smiling faces and pouts a little when she is scolded but you pat her head once and she will lean against you with her eyes closed and smile as you continue patting her.

When I was about to leave she asked me repeatedly “abar ashbe toh?” (You will come again, won’t you?) and it just broke my heart when I realized that it was in all probability the first and the last time I am meeting this pint-sized powerhouse of fantastic imagination with the sunniest disposition I have seen in a long time. It is so unfair. We meet someone for the first time, like him/her immensely and before we can make some more happy memories with that person, we have to bid goodbye and never come back. She has about 50 imaginary friends with magical powers and who are far more interesting than me in her make-believe world and in all probability will not even remember me when if we meet again.

Also today I was in the roof when I saw the sun set and the sky painted a brilliant shade of pink. Boy! That kid does have a point. Why are elders such idiots?


Where I hold the one sitting up there responsible for everything and feign ignorance when my doing is being questioned

Dear God,

If you haven’t been living under a rock for the past gazillion years, you will know and understand how it breaks my heart to see a man, insanely hot and as beautiful as a dream, who apparently is not a jerk, a camera slave and paparazzi whore,  who is not known for throwing his weight around in spite of being a brilliant man and one of the sexiest alive, who has portrayed the role of my favorite superhero right after Batman right next to Iron Man, who has been a delightful Academy awards host, whose smile and incredibly deep baritone voice makes my knees wobble and turns my occasionally man-hating, feminist bullshit-spewing self into a mushy, gushy, gooey mess, married for the past fifteen years.

In an industry that never fails to entertain us with its stories of high profile divorces, it is wonderful to know that he and his wife have been together for a record fifteen years.

// Note to reader: I am a celeb gossip whore and my imagination often spirals out of control based on what I read up online. So what? Move on.

It just goes to show that he is The One material and thus it breaks my heart further to know that another The One type guy is lost to Marriagedoom Marriagedom (sic); another man who is a total freaking keeper for more reasons than one just decides to get hitched like that without sparing a thought for all the gazillion single women in the world who are giving each other a stiff competition in kissing the highest number of frogs and toads and other varieties of amphibians in their bid to find the One.

See, all I am saying is that nice, funny, talented and hot men shouldn’t be double (opposite of single. Got it? Okay. ).At least till I and the sisterhood have had our share of kissing frogs and the like and have found The One. You can do something about it right?

As of now, it just seems that you are ready to do little more than just sit there and shrug or laugh at our misery.

Look., we have made 100 MB Excel spreadsheets listing the qualities we want in our men (which inadvertently and automatically get deleted when we format computers and forget to take backups); we have got drunk and called up exes and potential The One’s/ flings and have had conversation embarrassing enough to give us nightmares for a lifetime and make us doubt our social as well as inter/intra-gender socializing skills; we have read and re-re…-re-read and dissected texts and Gtalk chats; we have called up BFFs at 2 in the morning to tell them the conversations we have had; we have bnursed broken hearts and considered getting our heads checked for having acted like juvenile idiots and whatnots.

It looks funny from the outside but from the inside, our heads often resemble an exploding meth lab. And some of us have this habit of crawling into our respective comfort zones which aren’t very comfortable at the end of the day.

All this is a hint that we could do with some help here to increase the availability of potential The One type men. (And it’d be bloody good if they came in packages like that of the aforementioned actor. ) So automatically, by the Principle of Conservation of Mass, the number of frogs/toads will go down.  But obviously you can’t take a hint, even when we give you subtle indicators like “God! Help me find a The One type man” etc.

Screw everything else, save the single hot intelligent funny genuinely nice The One type men. I will have you known that I won’t take no for an answer this time. And if you don’t oblige kindly note that when I go to heaven (or be consigned to the lowest layers of Hell but somehow sneak out and hitchhike my way to heaven) I will bore you with insanely mundane details of science fiction and the like. Do remember that I am the alpha nerd in whatever group I hang out with and I do know for a fact that everybody hates boring science fiction trivia and notsofunfacts. It is a somewhat people-repellent trait, works on supposedly potential The One type men the most.

So don’t be a master of misdirection and kindly look into our situation. And go tell the aforementioned celeb that it isn’t fair the way he ditched us all-even someone like Yours Truly who is simply not wired to settle down would have given an arm to marry him (that is just a figure of speech. Okay? Okay.)

So there.

Yours not-till-you-do-something

YT


Note to self.

For the seventh freaking time,

Stop tearing up and then running to the loo where you burst into tears and cry yourself into a raging headache every time you see Barney and Robin together on screening and imagine that Barney will marry that stupid anorexic bitch with a stupid irritating accent who goes by the name Nora and not Robin.

Okay? OKAY? Okay.


“Excuse me but I have to look for these spiders so I can’t get married now…”

People my age are getting married. MARRIED! At 22, 23 24!

They say living expenses have gone up so much that they can’t afford to pay separate rents or transport costs etc.

(living together is not an option for them as most of them come from so-called “bhadro” Bangali families who refuse to acknowledge the fact that their kids have an active libido, have dirty dreams at night and would like to check if they are sexually compatible with their partners before getting hitched.  As for the kids, there’s this invisible umbilical cord that ties them to their mommies hundred miles away and keeps them from doing what they want lest mommies disapprove. That’s okay with me. But when the same people complain that their mommies are not letting them grow up, that is not okay with me.)

Yeah so, people are getting married. People my age. And here I am still wondering whether I have radioactive spiders in my room and the like.

I love him. Like something more than heartbreakingly insane.

But I know I wouldn’t marry a hot, brooding, billionaire masked vigilante, even if he asks for my hand in marriage and goes to the extent of committing the cardinal sin (in his case, killing a human soul) to convince me. (He won’t him. I know him too well. And I digress. ). At least not now. Right now I am happy. And I want to be left in peace while I search for those radioactive spiders.


“Mere paas…mere paas Pardada, Dadima AUR Baap Hain…”

This might sound outrageous but I think I have nothing personal against dynastic politics as long as it is clean politics and good governance.

(And when I say ‘dynastic politics’ I do not mean dictatorship under the garb of democracy because my idea/brand of dynastic politics will never violate human rights and the constitution. Remember, I said ‘clean politics and good governance’. )

Dear Youth Leader,

I am not against you becoming the country’s next premier. Hell! If you are even 20% the farmer/Dalit-friendly politician that you make yourself out to be, you have my unconditional support.

And I swear your dimpled smile has got nothing to do with my decision.

But don’t break my heart by letting the coterie around you treat the prime minister’s chair as your grandmother’s legacy.

Because then I will get pissed. And many others like me will get pissed. And it’s not a sensible idea to piss us off. It’s never been.

And if it’s not you or your party, the alternative plain makes me shudder.  :-(

Sincerely,

Supremely Confused Young Voter


Note to self

Dizzzzgussting!

What are you, SIXTEEN?!

and STOP grinning like a blinking idiot as you type this.  I am ashamed. Chhee.


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.